


The Dreams That Chose Us

by prodigalra (chiastica)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Voltron: Legendary Defender, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Found Family, Good Lotor (Voltron), Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), Lotor (Voltron) Deserves Better, M/M, Mind Reading, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Multi, Non-Consensual Mind Reading, Past Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Quest: Ugly Baby (The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt), The Voltron Paladins are not the good guys, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), everyone gets to process their trauma, it's what they deserve, just saying, non-consensual body mutation, they do the trial of the grasses on someone without their consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27794191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiastica/pseuds/prodigalra
Summary: When Voltron meets Sincline in their epic battle for the universe, Emperor Lotor is left in the quintessence field to die. But by some slim chance, he pulls himself out of it with his last reserve of energy and finds himself launched into an unfamiliar system in an entirely new reality, with no way to get himself home.On the Continent, Geralt of Rivia is searching for his adopted daughter, Ciri. But the Wild Hunt is looking for her too: they’re a violent and aggressive group of elven mages from another world, covetous of the power in Ciri’s blood.To Geralt, Lotor is just a stranger with the face of an elf: for all Geralt knows, he could be connected with the Wild Hunt. How can Lotor get the Witcher to trust him enough to help him get home?
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends! Just FYI I’m playin’ a bit fast and loose with the Witcher canon I’m using … the setting we’re in is from the Witcher 3: Wild Hunt game (i.e. after the events of the show and books), during the first section of quests at Kaer Morhen. I don't think it's *super* important that you be familiar with that context?? But please ask if anything is unclear! Yennefer is an amalgam of the game/book character, and when Jaskier/Dandelion enters the scene, he’s gonna be the show Jaskier, because Jaskier Is Best Bard(TM). Title is a slightly warped lyric from Martin Sexton's song "Failure", which feels apt, idk.
> 
> This is my first fic ever? It feels a bit ambitious but tbh it’s the first thing I’ve ever been very *motivated* to write, so, here we are. By my outline it feels like we’ll land somewhere around 10 chapters but whoooo knowwwws. Rating and tags may change as the story progresses (I wanna get some ships in there but idk how I want them to play out just yet???), so I’ll be sure to put any new tags in the chapter notes as well. Thanks for reading!

_ “Now we will see how Alfor’s legacy stands against the new Altean defender.” _

It didn’t, truly.

He had said it so many times before to his generals - no, his  _ former _ generals, he had to remind himself. But the point stood, nonetheless: this iteration of Voltron was nothing compared to the Voltron of the past. That version was the true Voltron, loath as he was to admit that anything Zarkon had done with his unnaturally long life could have possibly been any good. That was the Voltron about whom all the legends were written. These Paladins were merely children. They had no grasp of the true power they wielded. Were they even slightly more skilled, that lack of knowledge could be dangerous, but Lotor had no doubt that these fools couldn’t manage anything truly catastrophic even if they tried.

_ At least _ , he corrected himself,  _ not in a physical way _ . By cutting him off from his Altean colony, by not asking him to explain his purpose there - which he would have, and they would have understood - and by threatening him what little physical harm they could as a first course of action and not as a last resort, they had already caused irreparable damage to his plans to transform the Galra Empire. They had destroyed any hope of the restoration of Altean culture. They had destroyed the universe’s best chance to live in peace.

_ Fools. _

But he couldn’t think about that now. Sincline needed all of his energy and focus.

Because this was an exhilarating fight. His first in the fully-formed Sincline mecha, which already felt, to him, like an extension of his own body. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and he could almost imagine it continuing to flow into Sincline through the quintessence lines. A symbiotic loop of power and energy. He felt truly integrated, as if he merely had to think of what he wanted to do next and Sincline would respond. Almost before the thought had even completed itself in his mind.

He had always been an excellent fighter, and an excellent pilot. Top of his class, had anyone bothered to check, which of course they never did. All the same, this feeling of total unity with his vehicle - even though Sincline was so much more than just a vehicle - was entirely new.

He never wanted to stop.

It was laughable how poorly Voltron was performing. A small part of him wished that they weren’t so incompetent, just so he and Sincline would have a bit of a challenge. Because where was the fun in a fight that was so uneven? Or the honour, for that matter?

He still couldn’t understand how so many Galra - Galra who claimed to value honour above all - followed Zarkon with such dedication, and for so long, knowing full well there was absolutely no honour in his manner of conquest.

But that hardly mattered now.

Voltron shot at him with a cannon, then pulled out their sword. Predictable. All he had to do was imagine twin blades glinting in his hands, and he sent the blocky mecha careening back into a hollowed-out asteroid, from which they wouldn’t be able to escape his next blow.

_ Fools. _

He began his acceleration toward them. This was laughably easy. One hit at top speed would surely be the end of Voltron. If he wasn’t so euphoric at the thought, he might have even felt sorry for them. A small part of him may have regretted that it would be the end of  _ her _ as well, but he chose not to listen to that part. It was too late. He lunged.

All he had to do was land one hit. Almost there. He closed his eyes and imagined the sweet taste of victory -

He felt the blow as though it was to his own body. The quintessence-adrenaline stopped suddenly, and then spiked again: he was angry. How dare Voltron try to fight a machine of the calibre of Sincline? He had to push through. Victory or -

Another opening. Fools,  _ fools! _ They could never hope to touch him if they kept projecting their attacks as far in advance as they did. He had discovered this particular downfall of “teamwork” long ago: taking the time to communicate your intentions with each other causes delays. And delays cause death. Always, more and more death.

For a while, he had tried to work with a team despite these clear setbacks. And up until perhaps a varga ago, he would have been happy to continue working with one. He knew, now, though, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was better to work alone.

Voltron’s cannon shot was on its way - too slow, too slow, they made it so  _ easy _ for him!

He leapt out of the way - and into the raw power of the quintessence field. His blood sang.

A step back into the ruined remains of the gate, and a blow to Voltron. What fun.

It became like a dance. He was dancing with Sincline, with himself. He was even dancing with Voltron, but they made for a terrible partner. This didn’t surprise him. The Princess could be quite awkward if she ever had to be anything other than An Alchemist or A Diplomat. How could you create the emotional intimacy necessary to … to dance well, under those circumstances? He wished he’d seen it sooner.

He leapt between the quintessence field and the ruins of the gate with ease, spinning faster and faster, dealing destruction and gaining power and life and energy. It was intoxicating. He needed nothing and no-one else, not in this moment, and not ever.

_ “Unlimited power is mine. All realities will fall to the new Altean Empire!” _

He didn’t even care whether she heard him or not.

Another leap, a spin, and he was resting, recharging, growing in the quintessence field. Why would he ever leave this place? Voltron could never follow him here. She would never have the nerve to try it again without him.

He felt a sudden shift in the balance of the field, and turned to see what it was. Apparently she had one more surprise in store for him.

_ “I underestimated you, Princess.” _

He wondered, vaguely, if she was thinking about the last time they were together in the quintessence field. Though they were chronologically close to the same age, she had spent 10,000 decaphoebs in stasis, while he had lived through them all. It left them with a rather large gap in their shared life experience. But among many other things, 10,000 decaphoebs of life had taught him how to be an extremely skilled and patient lover, which he’d had to be, since for all the Princess was willing, she was nervous and inexperienced. His performance, combined with the quintessence field’s amplification of pleasurable sensations, made him fairly certain that even if she lived another 10,000 decaphoebs she’d never have an experience quite like that again.

What a shame.

He was indeed surprised that she’d made it through with the dead weight of Voltron in tow, but the thought of a battle with her  _ here _ , in the midst of all this raw power, electrified him. He let the quintessence flow through his body, and he struck.

This,  _ this,  _ was what he craved, what his whole life had been building to, this feeling.

He was no longer the disgraced Prince or the disputed Emperor, he was Sincline, and he was the most powerful being in the universe. With every blow to Voltron, he pushed himself to the limits only to find that the limits were never there.

He was overwhelmed with the power of it all.

He could do this forever.

He  _ would _ do this forever.

A laugh bubbled up from his chest.

_ “Poor Allura! All the power in the universe at your fingertips, and you still fear using it!” _

What was there to fear from power? Only a fool could have  _ this _ within their grasp and turn their back on it.

He could do this forever.

He could do -

He needed -

He needed more, more still, the quintessence field wasn’t giving him enough anymore, there had to be more. Voltron had stopped fighting, why had they stopped? Voltron was - Voltron was giving up their power, transferring it to him, offering it in deference to his greatness, yes, this was what he needed, what he craved -

Yes.

This was bliss, this was - no - he was on fire - this wasn’t right -

He couldn’t hold on to it all anymore. He broke.

She wasn’t always a voice of reason. But this time she had it right. Voltron was gone. She was gone. For good.

He floated, oversaturated with agony. He was in a haze outside the boundaries of mere life and death. He simply existed.

There must have been enough left of his uncorrupted body to engage his last survival instinct. He reached out his hand - Sincline’s hand, the hand she helped him create - and imagined the gate. He didn’t know how long he spent with the image in his mind - a dobosh, a decaphoeb - but when he felt the edge of the quintessence field start to fray at Sincline’s fingertips, he pulled with all that was left of his strength.

He felt a squeeze and a jolt, and was suddenly hurtling through a galaxy he didn’t recognize, toward the center of an unfamiliar system. The force of his exit from the quintessence field had caused Sincline to split into its individual component ships. His ship was in a wild spin, and he couldn’t orient himself before he saw the terrestrial planet in his path.

A terrestrial planet with an atmosphere -

A collision there at this speed would mean instant incineration in any other ship.

He felt the heat begin to rise, and then he felt nothing at all.

* * *

_ “Hey, whaddya say to a little race? Maybe see who’s faster, Roach or Skorpion. And who’s the better rider.” _

Geralt snorted as he secured the last of the forktail’s remains to Roach. The thought crossed his mind that they didn’t need to race to answer either question, but he took Eskel’s bait all the same.

_ “Not really a challenge, ‘cause I could beat you riding a lame sow. But why not?” _

_ “You’re a lame sow yourself.”  _ Eskel said, swinging up into Skorpion’s saddle. _ “First to Kaer Morhen wins!” _

Geralt hopped onto Roach, and the two riders were off.

Rarely did Geralt have the opportunity to pursue activities purely for enjoyment anymore. His time on The Path in the past few years had involved some racing with Roach, true, but there was always a reason he needed to race: for instance, when contracts were few and far between and he needed the coin, or perhaps he needed the chance to talk with the race’s sponsor in order to gain much-needed information. It was never for the joy alone. 

The ride felt entirely different when there was no ulterior motive. He would have to remember that.

Skorpion was big, strong and beautiful, like Eskel himself. Eskel had also clearly taken the time and put in the effort to train Skorpion for a life on The Path; the Kaedweni stallion had stayed completely calm as they chased the forktail up to its cave earlier, as Roach had. Skorpion was still quite young, too, and so Geralt was doubly impressed by what Eskel had already accomplished with him. If they were riding into battle, Geralt knew there was nobody else he’d rather have by his side than Eskel, for so many reasons.

But in a race, strength and demeanour didn’t matter. Only speed did. Geralt and Roach were simply faster, horse and rider both, and soon they were far ahead of Eskel and Skorpion.

For as long as Geralt had been away from these mountains, he still knew them well. He had walked and ridden these paths so many times - as a child, as a youth, and as a newly-made Witcher - that there wasn’t a single part of them that wasn’t ingrained into his memory. There was the thicket where he and Eskel had hidden as they hunted and trapped their first forktail together, just after their trial. Their nerves had still been on fire. Past that, there was the first ford of the stream, where he and Oleg had taken down a drowner together only a month after Oleg had arrived at the keep - best not dwell on Oleg, though. Other than to say the quick prayer he always said when the boy crossed his mind. Whether any gods were listening was almost beside the point.

And so as the memory of Oleg drifted away with the breeze, Geralt let his mind concentrate on the sensations around him rather than on the technicalities of riding. He knew how many steps to the gate of Kaer Morhen from here by feel and instinct, so he closed his eyes as Roach flew over the second ford. The castle was close, he could feel it. He revelled in the sensation of the wind against his face.

_ “Geralt!” _

He smiled, thinking that Eskel was trying to distract him in the last stretch of the race so that he could win, but then he felt it too.

He opened his eyes, and shifted his weight back subtly in the saddle to slow Roach. Something was off about the western sky, but he couldn’t tell what yet. He pulled up on the reins, and Roach slowed to a stop. Eskel pulled up beside him. Then they saw it.

It looked like a trail of fire lighting up the sky, and it was moving fast. A meteorite, then, most likely, and a large one, too. Geralt wasn’t sure how big it was, but he thought its trajectory was aiming uncomfortably close to where they were standing. Absurdly, the idea of metal for new swords crossed Geralt’s mind - then he realized he’d have to survive the impact before he’d be able to gather the ore to bring to Hattori back in Novigrad.

And then the thought occurred to him that he might not.

Geralt looked at Eskel with no words. This couldn’t be the end, not yet, not while Yen was here, and Ciri was -

“Cover your ears,” Eskel said.

“What? I -”

“Do it!”

In a daze, Geralt did as he was told. He held his seat, too, as Roach bucked when she felt the impact shake the ground around them. And then it was over.

“I think it hit just past the old Bastion. Should we go have a look?” asked Eskel.

Geralt was still too shocked to reply, and when an answer didn’t come, Eskel turned to look at him and snorted out a laugh.

“It wasn’t nearly big enough to have killed us. Is that what you thought? You should see your face!”

“I wasn’t - I ... fine. I still won the race to Kaer Morhen, though.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Geralt,” Eskel said, still chuckling, spurring Skorpion over to the western path.

Geralt mumbled under his breath, and followed with Roach.

**

The smoke plume was an easy landmark to follow as they rode. The impact site itself was easy to spot, too, as they passed the old Bastion. It wasn’t too far behind the tower, just as Eskel had thought. Many of the scraggly trees were singed and broken around the smouldering ruins of the meteor, for a number of yards on either side. The meteor itself looked to be about the size of a small horse cart.

“Too bad it missed the old Bastion completely,” Geralt said. “Don’t know how many times I’ve wished for that place to be gone.”

“If we wiped out everywhere that has bad childhood memories then this whole place would be a desert for five miles in every direction,” Eskel said.

Geralt grunted. What more was there to say?

They dismounted and left the horses well clear of the impact site, in the shade of one of the last walls of the Bastion left standing. (“I guess it’s good for something,” Geralt remarked.)

Geralt’s medallion began to vibrate. He glanced over at Eskel, who nodded - he felt it too, then. Both Witchers drew their swords as they continued to move closer. Geralt patted his hips to check his stock of bombs, in case it came to that. Years of keeping good habits on the Path meant he was well-supplied, as always, though of course it never hurt to check.

“I don’t think that’s a meteor,” Eskel said as they dropped into the impact crater. Geralt couldn’t sense anything that felt off about the magic, but Eskel had always been more sensitive to those kinds of subtleties. And after already showing his cards to Eskel before the meteor hit today, Geralt didn’t want to risk giving him something else to mock him for. He simply nodded, and gave a grunt in acknowledgment.

Closer still to the center of the impact site, Geralt could see that Eskel was right - this was no meteor, but as to what it was, he couldn’t yet say. He didn’t get the sense there was anything particularly malicious about it, though he couldn’t have explained why. He lowered his sword, and reached out his hand to touch the surface of the object. Under the dirt and debris it had collected on crash-landing, it looked smooth.

“Don’t!”

Geralt flinched and drew his hand back. “What? Do you sense something?” he asked. He’d always defer to Eskel’s extended magical skill.

“No, but it just fell out of the sky, burning. You want to wreck your fancy new gauntlet with a singe mark?”

“Better the gauntlet than my hand, you bastard,” Geralt shot back, though he was careful to brush off the grit in short, sharp strokes, because Eskel was right - it was hotter than he’d expected. And his gauntlets  _ were _ fairly new - Yoana had made them for him last time he was at the Crow’s Perch, after a design he remembered seeing on some Witchers of the Cat School. He wanted them to last.

Dusting the object off gave the Witchers no further clue as to what they were looking at. It was made with some kind of magically-imbued metal, that much was clear to them. And it was made, certainly, by a living being. Nothing like this could have been formed naturally. Even in a partially destroyed state, they could tell that the curves, angles, colours, and seams were too symmetrical and precise to be naturally occurring.

When you have walked the earth for as long as Geralt and Eskel had, very seldom do you come across something that’s entirely outside the scope of your knowledge and experience. The rarity and magnitude of an event like this didn’t give the Witchers fear, but made them go about their investigation with awe and reverence, savouring the novelty, and letting nothing go unexamined.

“Look here,” Eskel called after a while. Geralt walked around to the side where Eskel had been working. He had cleared more dirt and debris from a lower portion of the object, and was amazed to see that the outer panel was made of transparent material and showed that the inside was hollow.

“There’s something in there,” Eskel said. 

Geralt bent down to get a closer look. “More like someone, I think,” he said. “If he’s still alive, we need to get him out. Aard?”

“Mmm… yeah. Together. And focus it outwards. If she isn’t already dead I don’t want to be the one to kill her.”

They positioned themselves, and cast their signs in a practiced unison. Their combined blast of force loosened the transparent panel from its seam enough that they could pry it off, giving them access to the inside. The person inside was unconscious, but alive. The Witchers could sense a weak pulse and short, shallow breaths.

The strange person was wearing armour like nothing the Witchers had ever seen before - another strange occurrence to add to a day already full of them. The armour seemed to be made in a single piece, flexible and strong around the entire body. And it was attached to the inside of the not-meteor - for Geralt didn’t yet have a better way to describe the object that had crashed - with restraints and straps to protect whoever was inside it. It was probably this design that had ensured the stranger’s survival. It was impressive, though it proved difficult to dismantle. But the Witchers managed, as gently as they could, given the circumstances, and soon, the strange person was free.

They knelt on either side of the body that they’d laid on the ground -  _ no, not “body”, “body” implies death _ , Geralt reminded himself - and they were shocked by partial recognition.

A strong, elegant face that looked almost human, but not quite.  _ Just like us _ , Geralt thought,  _ almost human. Hair’s white like mine, too, but longer _ . Maybe some kind of mutant. The stranger’s skin was not like the colour of any person’s, human or otherwise, that he’d ever met. It was cooler toned somehow, a luminescent purple, like the underglow of a Stribog runestone. He could also tell that, whatever cool purple shade the stranger’s skin was supposed to be, there was something wrong with it now. It reminded him of seeing his own reflection in a pond while his Witcher potions were still running their course through his body after a fight. He didn’t like to look too long at his reflection even at the best of times, but the times when he saw the poisons pulsing just underneath his skin gave him a particular kind of revulsion he’d never wish on anyone. But the poisons were necessary. At least that’s what he’d been taught. He wondered if this was self-inflicted damage, too, whether someone had insisted that whatever had caused this was necessary before flying around in a not-meteor. And under the white hair -

“He looks like an elf,” Geralt said, surprised. “Aen Sidhe. Look at his ears.”  _ Or Aen Elle _ , he thought, but didn’t add. That possibility was too frightening to consider, with the Wild Hunt after Ciri.

“Maybe so,” Eskel replied, thoughtfully, “but I’ve never seen Aen Sidhe armour that looks like this. And what the hell is an elf doing in a -” he gestured awkwardly at the wreckage - “meteor? That came from the sky? How could she have managed it? Even with magic?” The more questions Eskel asked, the more he seemed to be getting upset by the implications of what they were looking at. He stood up and started pacing back and forth.

“You keep saying ‘she’,” Geralt said.

“Out of everything I just said,  _ that’s _ the thing you’re focusing on?” Eskel said, incredulous. “Why does it matter? She -”

“But this is a man, clearly,” Geralt interrupted. “He’s a warrior. I can feel it.”

“Geralt. What man in his right mind, especially a man who’s a warrior, as you say, would wear his hair like that?” Eskel asked, then remembered Geralt’s own chosen hairstyle and realized the mistake of his phrasing. As Geralt fought with his temper, Eskel grinned and doubled down. “It’s completely impractical, for one thing, and it looks ridiculous too -”

Geralt threw an Aard at Eskel - not as powerful as the one that they’d used to break open the not-meteor, but more powerful than one could strictly say was all in good fun. Eskel was knocked back a few steps, caught his heel on an exposed root, and fell to the ground, laughing.

“If you’re going to measure strength by hairstyle alone, then I already know he’s a better fighter than you are,” Geralt grumbled. He put an arm around the warrior’s back, another under his knees, and lifted. The odd suit of armour was sturdy, but flexible, and lighter than Geralt expected it to be. He didn’t struggle under its weight at all as he stood up.

He hoped Yen could help the strange warrior once they got him back to Kaer Morhen. If an elf could travel by meteor through the sky, the implications were a lot more frightening than he was ready to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time:
> 
> “You can call me Lotor. Thank you for -” he indicated the room - “all this. I imagine it was you who brought me here?”  
> “Don’t act like that wasn’t your plan all along,” said Geralt, drawing his sword. "Why are you here and what do you want with Ciri?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer and the Witchers bring Lotor into Kaer Morhen to tend his wounds, though they're still suspicious he might be a threat to them. Lotor wakes up, and is wary of his unfamiliar surroundings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this chapter: you get some non-consensual mind-reading from Yennefer here. It turns out OK in the end, and if you are familiar with Witcher book canon, you will know that Yen just Does This All The Time, but if not - now you know!! Let me know if you think I should have any additional tags on here, I want to make sure folks have what they need.
> 
> Still looking like it's possible to keep to a 1x/week posting schedule! I'm gonna say my posting time is "any time over a weekend" so for the literal two of you who are as pumped about this crossover as I am, keep your eyes peeled <3

Bringing the stranger back to the keep ultimately meant a delay in Yennefer’s preparations around lifting Uma’s curse, and ultimately, Geralt’s search for Ciri, he realized. But he had realized it too late, after he had already lifted the stranger up onto Skorpion and mounted the saddle behind him. (“Skorpion can take the extra weight,” he had said to Eskel. “Ride ahead on Roach and get Vesemir -” “On it,” Eskel had interrupted, mounting and spurring Roach into a gallop in one smooth and practiced motion.)

There were times he wished he could think more like Yen: always five steps ahead, having worked out all the possible outcomes before making her move. She was so far removed from thinking in the moment that immediate decisions already felt like yesterday’s news to her. They were past, done, and decided already, so there was no point in discussing them further. It was why she seemed so ruthless at times, he knew. And sometimes that ruthlessness came across as derision and heartlessness.  _ What a cruel way to describe my lover _ , he thought. But he had never wanted a lover to be falsely tender with him, and whisper meaningless platitudes in his ear. He wanted - no, needed - someone who was brutally honest, to a fault. How else could he be sure their love for him was true?

Yennefer was never going to change her manner, and for that, and for all her faults, he was glad. In the same way, he himself was never going to change his own approach to life. Walking The Path for all these years had taught him to live in a way that prioritized only his most immediate needs: there was elegant simplicity in thinking only about his next meal, his next contract, and his next place to sleep. Having only those concerns in his life was what allowed him to help others who needed him, which had come to be one of his few points of pride. Years ago, when he was newly walking The Path, he used to delude himself that he didn’t get involved in the affairs of others, as all Witchers professed. But that was a lie. He did get involved. Sometimes very deeply.

And sometimes, his involvement delayed the big picture.

But he couldn’t change his ways now.

By the time Geralt arrived at the keep, Vesemir and Eskel were waiting for him in the courtyard, where they helped him lift the stranger down off Skorpion as gently as they could. Eskel then hoisted him up over his shoulders and carried him to one of the long-disused rooms on the ground floor of the barracks tower. Geralt and Vesemir followed behind. Geralt was fairly certain the small room hadn’t been in regular use since long before his Trial, but Vesemir had already lit the fire and put fresh blankets on the bed, and it felt as warm and welcoming as was possible for Kaer Morhen.

Yennefer entered the room in a flurry, carrying her rolled up parcel of healing herbs. Together, the four of them got the stranger out of the armour with the help of some subtle magic.

All armour changed the way one’s size and shape were perceived. It simply wasn’t possible to do otherwise. Good armourers, like Yoana, used this fact to their advantage: the choices they made about their shapes and lines could imply ferocity, speed, motion, and strength, among other things. The stranger’s armour was not built in a silhouette Geralt was familiar with, for once they got him out of it, he appeared quite a bit leaner than Geralt was expecting him to.

He was, however, of a similar height to the three Witchers in the room (Geralt thought the slight difference between Eskel and himself hardly worth mentioning), so he fit easily into the spare nightshirt Vesemir had brought in from storage.

Once he was dressed and laid on the bed, Yennefer stepped in and immediately began working with her healing spells. The three Witchers stood back, giving her space to work, but watched her carefully in fascination. Though they were considered magic wielders themselves, owing to their use of Signs, their magic was nothing compared to what a Sorceress was capable of, especially one as skilled as Yennefer. Their interest in her work was part professional curiosity, and part envy at her far superior magical artistry.

After a few minutes of quiet concentration, she sighed, speaking a final spell -  _ “monatóir linbh” _ \- and turned around.

“I thought I had seen my last day casting crude healing spells in a crumbling keep years ago,” she said.

Geralt might have risen to her bait on another occasion, but here and now there were too many unknowns swimming around in his mind to start bickering. “How is he?”

“He’ll live. Whatever substance you observed in his system earlier seems to have worked its way out, for now. From what I can gather, he seems stable enough,” Yennefer said. She had packed up her roll of herbs, which she hadn’t touched, and was ushering the Witchers out in the hallway to give the stranger space and silence to sleep.

“What do you mean, from what you can gather? Haven’t you ever healed any Aen Sidhe before?” Geralt asked.

“Of course I have, don’t be foolish. I just mean that there’s enough that’s different about his body that I’m not certain he truly  _ is  _ Aen Sidhe.”

Eskel and Vesemir were surprised at that. Geralt wanted to be surprised, but the knot he had been trying to ignore in his stomach wouldn’t let him.  _ Aen Elle, _ it said, even as Geralt didn’t want to hear it. The stranger’s ear shape was unquestionably elvish, but his colouring was so strikingly otherworldly: Geralt had met several Aen Sidhe in his life, and as varied as they all were in appearance, none of them had anything resembling those cool luminescent purples in their skin tone.

_ No,  _ he thought.  _ For once, I don’t want to be right about this. Please. _

“I can’t be sure, but he could be Aen Elle.”

Yennefer’s words weighed heavily on Geralt, confirming for him that his suspicion wasn’t just one of the irrational fears his mind cooked up whenever Ciri’s safety was in question. He couldn’t deny that it fit, it all fit. The Aen Elle and Aen Sidhe races had split long ago at the Conjunction of the Spheres: marked differences in their appearances would be only natural by now. This stranger had arrived, like a meteor, seemingly from another world - that would fit too.

Eskel whistled. “Another threat to Ciri lands right in our back yard. This just keeps getting better.”

“Whatever he’s doing here can’t bode well for any of us,” Vesemir said. “But we won’t be able to know what he’s up to until he wakes.”

“But either way, this changes things, doesn’t it?” Geralt asked. “If - if Uma is Ciri, and this elf is after her, then he’s … he’s found her. We lift the curse and she’s healed, he takes her, it’s done.” He slumped against the wall, feeling defeated. “We should just kill him now -”

“No, Geralt, think,” Yennefer said. “Aen Elle or not, he’s injured and weak. I know full well you wolves wouldn’t let him near Ciri. If, indeed, it’s her in there.” She sighed. “And maybe it’s not her in there. Maybe our plan fails. Any number of things could go wrong.”

Geralt turned his face away from the rest of them, fighting off tears. He knew Yennefer was speaking the truth - she always did. But it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“The point being, there’s too much we don’t know,” she said, more softly this time. “He might be a threat, but he also might have information for us. We can’t afford to lose that possibility.”

“We’ll have to keep watch on him, then,” Eskel said.

“I spelled him so that I’d know the minute he stirs,” Yennefer said. “There’s nothing else we can do now but wait.”

* * *

Lotor’s consciousness returned to him slowly. Before he even opened his eyes, he sensed that all was not as it should be, so he reached out with his awareness and took stock of his body. He felt pain all over, but he couldn’t sense that any of his bones were broken or that any parts of him were missing. That was positive, at least.

_ Why was he so sore and injured? _

Pieces of what must have been his most recent memory started to come back. He had been in a ship, out of control, he had crashed into an unfamiliar terrestrial planet -

_ Why had he crashed? Where had he been going? _

And then he remembered the quintessence field. Sincline and Voltron.

Allura.

She had taken the word of a strange Altean over his word -  _ his word, _ the word of one who cared for her, one who loved her - and had attacked him, first bodily, and then with the most powerful weapon in the universe, and ultimately left him in the quintessence field to die.

If he wasn’t feeling pain before, he certainly was feeling it now.

He could feel tears begin to well up in his still-closed eyes. What was there to live for, now? She’d left him for dead. He should just be dead.

He slowly raised his hand to his face to wipe his eyes, and at that point he realized he wasn’t in his Sincline armour anymore. He brushed away his emotions - too much to deal with right now - and latched onto this mysterious development with fervour.

He opened his eyes to find himself in a small room, made out of rough-hewn but solid terrestrial material - quite primitive at first glance, but clearly built by someone, not a naturally-occuring formation.  _ Stone _ was the word for it, he remembered. He was laying on a bed - solid, yet plant-based, that was  _ wood _ \- that again had to have been crafted by someone, and he was covered in many layers of what looked like plant or animal fibers, processed and woven closely so as to be warm, and soft to the touch. He was clothed in a loose garment made out of something similar. The room was heated by a crackling fire, in a dedicated space cut out from the wall that seemed to be vented to the outside. He was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable he felt, despite the pain.

_ So, whoever brought me here is primitive, but advanced enough for tools and basic manufacturing _ , he thought. It could certainly be worse. He could have regained consciousness still inside Sincline, or whatever was left of it, knowing that he was totally alone. Waking here, in this strange place, told him that he had been found by someone. It told him that whoever had brought him here had decided to show him care and comfort, even without knowing who he was. The thought warmed him further.

As he began to stir and adjust himself in the bed, the heavy wooden door opened and two people walked in. In the most general sense, they looked like the humans he had met on Voltron, since their small ears and lack of both fur and Altean markings ruled out Altean or Galran. But the details of their appearances, and the vast differences in the way they were clothed, gave Lotor just enough reason to doubt they were human. The large one was pallid in colouring, with striking amber-coloured eyes. They looked strong and weather-worn, and were wearing sturdy, protective clothing. A fighter of some sort, then, Lotor guessed. The smaller one had flowing black hair that seemed very well-kept. Their clothing was black, too, and compared to the larger one’s plain and purpose-built garments and the roughness of the appointments around the room, it looked to be the height of luxury and expense.

For a moment, the two newcomers stared at him, as if unsure how to proceed. Then the larger one spoke, in a rough, low voice:

“Who are you?”

Lotor rubbed at the slight indent in front of his right ear canal: his implanted universal translator seemed to still be working, then.

“I …” How could he even answer that question, now? How long had it been since he had entered the quintessence field? Was he even Emperor anymore? He dropped his head into his hands with a sigh.

“You can call me Lotor. Thank you for -” he indicated the room - “all this. I imagine it was you who brought me here?”

“Don’t act like getting here wasn’t your plan all along,” the larger one said, crossing his arms over his chest. The smaller one simply observed, and seemed to be analyzing his movements and responses in ways he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

By the tension that was apparent in the larger one, and the nervous energy that seemed to be flowing between the two of them, Lotor sensed he was treading on the edge of something significant beyond the fact of his being here, but he didn’t know what it was just yet.

“I assure you my arrival here wasn’t intentional,” Lotor said, trying to keep his voice neutral as he gauged the situation. “Who are you, if I may ask? And where are we?”

“You say that like you don’t already know,” the larger one said. Then his temper seemed to get the better of him, and he drew a long blade that had been concealed on his back, in a quick and practiced motion. “Why are you here and what do you want with Ciri?”

“Geralt! Stop,” the smaller one said, and to Lotor’s amazement, he did, lowering his blade. The smaller one’s voice came across as melodious and sweet, but Lotor got the feeling that her usual manner of using it was the same way Geralt wielded his blade: swift, dangerous, and deadly.

“You truly don’t know, do you?” she asked, more to herself than to him, as if a puzzle piece had fallen into a place for her. She took a few steps toward him, leaned down, and looked into his eyes. His head began to spin. “Well, that is fascinating, indeed.”

“Yen, what, no - “ said Geralt. Lotor couldn’t hear the end of his sentence, if there was one, as all of his senses seemed to dull.

He felt uncomfortable with her closeness and tried to shut his eyes, but found that he couldn’t. He saw her eyes in front of him - purple, like the half-human Voltron paladin’s had been - but he also saw his own memories floating unbidden between them. He saw flashes of his father, the witch and her laboratories, and Central Command - then Ven’tar and Kova, his generals, then the second colony - Voltron, Allura, Sincline, the quintessence field. The journey to Oriande, and the White Lion. And more. Things he thought he had long forgotten. It was too much for him to process all at once, and his body reacted with a violent wave of nausea.

He tore himself away from her gaze - or more likely, she let him go - and turned to his side to vomit, to find that Geralt was sitting on the bed next to him, ready with a bucket. He leaned on him for support as he emptied the meagre contents of his stomach, and Geralt rubbed his back through the last of his spasms.

“It always feels like that, the first time,” Geralt said, placing the used bucket on the floor. The gruffness of his voice had taken on a slightly kinder quality, but it still had some bite to it.

“I … what …” Lotor said, still breathing hard.

“Yennefer just read your mind. Without your permission,” he added, aiming the last with a pointed glare at Yennefer. “You can’t just -”

“I now know for certain that he isn’t Aen Elle,” Yennefer shot back, clearly unfazed. ”And I didn’t have to take the chance that he would lie to us, or use up precious time that we don’t have to feign diplomacy,” she continued. “He’s no threat, Geralt, not to Ciri, and not to us.”

Lotor knew that Geralt must have believed her, since he gave her a grunt of acknowledgement and began to rub his back again. He still felt residually ill, and more than a little concerned that his mind was that much of an open book to this complete stranger, though the tactician in him thought that if he had access to mind-reading technology as efficient as that, he probably would have done the same thing in her place.

Yennefer sat down on the bed, on Lotor’s other side. “He’s far from home,” she said, more softly. She took one of Lotor’s hands in her own. “Further than I thought it possible to be. And he has been through many lifetimes of pain and trials.”

This complete stranger’s acknowledgement of his many hurts, the way she simply stated it like it was a fact, overshadowed everything else that was going on, and broke something inside Lotor. He leaned into Geralt’s touch, and squeezed Yennefer’s hand, needing to ground himself in something physical as the weight and release her words washed over him. Biting back even more tears that threatened to come, he asked: “How far from home, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “This is the Globe, and I know there’s at least one more world like it, but where we are in relation to where you have been, I couldn’t say.”

_ The Globe, _ he thought absently.  _ The humans I knew called it Earth. _

“Are you - “ he began to ask, but couldn’t find the words to complete his question. His eyes began to close again, physical and mental exhaustion taking their toll.

“This place - this keep - is Kaer Morhen,” Geralt said. “It’s in the mountains in the north of Kaedwen. You’re safe here.”

He nodded. He was reassured by Geralt’s words, even though he didn’t understand them all.

“Sleep now, Lotor.” Yennefer’s voice carried a suggestion that he couldn’t ignore, and he felt his body relax back down into the bed.

_ “You’re safe here.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time:
> 
> Lambert took a long pull from the jug of Viziman Champion, then turned around to face him.  
> “You’re Lotor, you’re the ... not-elf man. Not Aen Sidhe, not Aen Elle … what other Aens are there? I only know the two,” Lambert said, gesturing at him with the now-nearly-empty jug.  
> “It’s two more than I know,” Lotor replied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotor walks into the middle of a quest from Witcher 3: The Wild Hunt. Video of that quest is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8NmOvn-88U) for context, BUT A MAJOR CW for it: people are inflicting pain on a creature - performing the Trial of the Grasses, i.e. the Witcher Mutations, that only 3/10 people survive - and the creature cannot consent. The purpose of doing it is to ultimately heal the creature and lift a curse, and the process is ultimately successful, but it’s kind of tough to watch, so use your best judgment. Italic dialogue in this chapter is lifted right from that quest. And also, I’m describing some of those elements here in this chapter, so the “graphic depictions of violence” warning is in full force.  
> Anyways if you are NOT familiar with the plot of Wild Hunt, basically the Witcher-fam thinks that this creature, “Uma”, is Ciri, but cursed, and so they are doing the Trial as part of a way to break the curse and save Ciri, and that’s kind of all you need to know for now :)

When Lotor woke again, he was unsure about how much time had passed since the last time he’d awoken, and found that he didn’t much care.

Taking stock of his body again, he was pleased to feel much less in pain, and much less confusion about the events that had transpired in his recent past. This added up to a much improved outlook. He knew where he was - somewhat - and he knew that he was safe, for the time being. He still didn’t know how he was going to get back home, to communicate with the people he’d left in the Altean colony, to try, again, for peace in the universe -

It was still too much to think about. He’d come back to it later.

Right now, he could think about his more immediate needs, and he was surprised and delighted to feel that he was hungry. Dayak had a phrase or a saying about how when your hunger came back, you were on the mend, either from illness or from battle wounds … he chose to believe her old adage, whatever the exact wording was, and take his hunger as a good sign.

Geralt and Yennefer had told him that he was safe here, and at this point he didn’t have reason not to believe them. He didn’t think he was being held prisoner, either, since the room he had been sleeping in wasn’t locked from the outside. As he opened the door to leave, he realized that the hallway was much colder than his room: apparently, heating by fire was not very efficient. He picked up one of the many coverings from the bed and wrapped it around himself before he stepped out again.

The hallway was empty, and he followed the narrow passage past several small doors that looked like the one to his own room, until he found himself in what must have been the keep’s great hall. It was at least the size of Zarkon’s throne room back on Central Command, if not larger, and it looked like it could have been grand and impressive, once, though it had the air of disuse about it along with several signs of disrepair. There were tall stone columns throughout the room, supporting the high arched ceiling, as well as copper stoves that were lit for heat. Despite the air of abandonment about it, it was warmer in here than it had been in the hallway.

He heard voices coming from the far side of the hall. He recognized Geralt and Yennefer’s among them, but there were others, too, including one that sounded rather inhuman and in pain. He followed them. Bits of the conversation became audible as he got closer.

_ “The hookweed work?” _

_ “If it hadn’t, the pain would have sent him into shock, killed him.” _

_ “Great, perfect, so everything’s going smoothly.” _

_ “No … but it’s within known norms.” _

Lotor passed one of the last pillars in the room, and found Geralt and Yennefer with three other men in a far corner of the great hall, looking somber and serious. They were standing around a severe and ominous-looking surgical table, made of dark metal bars. There was a pitiful creature laying on it, hooked up to several tubes and bulbs full of various coloured liquids, and quite obviously in pain.

_ “Administer the next potion,”  _ Yennefer told Geralt. Yennefer seemed to be the one in charge of whatever was going on here, and Geralt and the others were efficient at obeying her commands. As Geralt followed her instruction and opened a valve on one of the bulbs of liquid, the creature on the table began to scream again in earnest.

Lotor felt the anguish of the poor creature in his heart, and wondered what the purpose of this process was - whether these people, who had appeared at first as though they cared for him and his safety, were actually as kind as they seemed. He thought about stepping in and threatening force in order to get them to stop - but Geralt and the other men were armed. He was still weak from his crash, and had no weapons on him. He also didn’t know where he was, and if he staged a rescue of this creature now, he wouldn’t even know where to take it.

He knew that Yennefer had more efficient methods of extracting confessions because she had used them on him (which he needed to remember to ask her about), and he could see that none of the people in the room seemed to be enjoying what was going on. So it clearly wasn’t torture for torture’s sake. Something bigger was going on here.

As the creature’s round of screams died down, he started to formulate a question, but the oldest-looking man spoke first.

_ “I’d hoped … I had hoped I’d never have to watch this again,” _ he said, clearly in anguish.

A younger man, who had been leaning on one of the columns, stepped out from the shadows. He seemed much more angry than all of them.  _ “Why’d you keep the table, then?”  _ he spat at the older man, then turned to walk away.

None of the others reacted as the young man left. Yennefer kept her eyes on the creature on the table. “Lotor - you don’t need to be here for this,” she said, softly. “We’ll be hours, yet. Lambert is probably on his way to the kitchens if you’re hungry. Next potion, Geralt.”

“What are you -”

“We’ll explain later,” she said. Her tone made it clear that the conversation was over. He nodded in acknowledgment, and turned to follow the young man - Lambert - as Geralt opened another valve and the creature began to scream again.

Lambert had stormed through the great hall towards another stone passageway. Lotor followed him down a set of stairs into a small, warm and low-ceilinged room - the kitchen. The stone floors in here were warm on his bare feet. Copper pots hung above the stoves, floor-to-ceiling shelves held various ingredients and stores of staple foods, and on the far wall, a rack was filled with glass and stone bottles of all shapes and sizes.

A long, wooden table ran down the middle of the narrow room. Lambert had pulled a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese off of one of the shelves and had set it down haphazardly in the middle of the table. He was standing in front of the bottle rack with his back to Lotor, taking a long, slow pull from the neck of a large stone jug, despite there being a mug in his other hand. Seemingly satisfied, he lowered the bottle and turned around.

“Can I - “ Lotor started.

“You’re Lotor, you’re the ... not-elf man. Not Aen Sidhe, not Aen Elle … what other Aens are there? I only know the two,” Lambert said, gesturing at him with the jug.

“It’s two more than I know,” Lotor replied. Lambert indicated the seat across from him at the table, and passed the jug across. Lotor took a sip - the taste was unfamiliar, but not terribly unpleasant. It was a little watery with a slight amount of grainy fermentation. He must have made a face, because Lambert started to explain.

“Viziman Champion. Tastes like piss but gets the job done,” Lambert said.

“What job is that?”

“Getting drunk enough to forget what they’re doing out there.”

“What  _ are _ they doing out there?”

“Trial of the goddamn Grasses, those pieces of shit.” Lambert was tearing up the loaf of bread, in a much more aggressive manner than was necessary, and handed a few pieces to Lotor.

“I don’t know what that means,” Lotor said, taking the bread.

Lambert sighed. “Right. Fuck. Yen told me you … aren’t from ... here.”

“That’s … yes, that’s one way of putting it,” Lotor said, amused at Lambert’s phrasing.

“Not from The Globe, I mean. So you don’t even know what a Witcher is, do you?” Lambert asked.

“No,” Lotor said, wondering what the connection was between a Witcher and whatever was happening in the great hall.

“A Witcher is the person everyone in the world hates most of all,” Lambert said. “A Witcher is the shittiest lot in life. A Witcher is always a Witcher, forever. You don’t choose to be a Witcher, and then once you become a Witcher, you can’t ever be anything else.”

“You’re a Witcher,” Lotor said, part question and part statement.

“Yeah, I’m a fuckin’ Witcher. Everyone in this place is a fuckin’ Witcher, ‘cept Yennefer.”

“What …” Lotor felt like he was still missing a few critical pieces of information, including what, exactly, a Witcher was. “What does that have to do with what they’re doing to that creature?”

Lambert stood up and leaned over the table, putting his face close to Lotor’s. “See this?” he asked, pointing toward his own eyes. They were the same amber colour as Geralt’s, and upon looking closer, Lotor could see that the pupil was slit vertically. “Ever met a human with eyes like that before?”

“I haven’t met very many humans before,” Lotor said, and Lambert looked slightly abashed for a moment. “But … no, before meeting you and Geralt, none with eyes like yours.”

“That’s because humans aren’t born like this,” Lambert said, sitting back down and taking out one of the daggers on his hip to start on the cheese. “No humans are. Witchers aren’t born, they’re made. They  _ made _ us, they made us into mutants. With the Trial of the Grasses. That’s what the mutation process is called. That’s what they’re doing to that little guy up there right now.”

Flashes of Honerva’s experiments bubbled up in Lotor’s mind. He recalled what she had done to Sendak, and what she had done to Shiro, the human they had called Champion. Sendak had been overjoyed with his enhancements. Bigger was always better to the Galra. But from the short time Lotor had spent with Shiro upon the Castle of Lions, he knew that Shiro still carried pain and resentment from what had been done to him, much more than he ever let on to his Voltron teammates. He was glad to have been able to be there for Shiro, for the short time they had together, when there was nobody else who could hold it all with him. He hoped it was enough.

Lotor thought, too, about what he’d gone through himself, as a child. There were so many Galra doctors, one after the other, who had, on Zarkon’s orders, attempted to medicate him for his small stature, his apparent weakness. It felt like they were trying to medicate the Altean right out of him.

He said nothing of this to Lambert, who was clearly in the middle of parsing his own feelings.

“Almost nobody survives it, you know,” Lambert said after a while. “It’s such bullshit. You start Witcher training young, five or six years old. You get brought here by your shitty parents or else you get stolen. There were ten of us in my age group,” Lambert said. He drank again from the stone jug.

“So by the time our Trial comes up, I’ve spent more than half my life with these nine other kids, you know?” Lambert’s voice threatened to break. The jug was empty, so he got up to get another one from the rack. “And I had to sit there and watch them go through that one by one. Listen to them all scream just like Uma’s screaming right now. Every single one of them died. Right in front of my fucking eyes.”

Lambert sat down again, popped the cork from the new jug, and drank deeply. “All so we could be a little bit better at killing monsters. That’s all a Witcher does is kill monsters. For hire. What a fucking waste. So gods forgive me if I’d rather not watch it happen ever again.”

Lotor felt lucky that his Dayak had intervened in his medical treatments when she had. The medications that the Galra doctors used on him had made him miserable, and even if there had been any discernible changes in his characteristics, Zarkon would never be satisfied with his half-Altean son. Upon realizing this, Dayak had finally put a stop to the treatments. While Zarkon never let up on his derision toward Lotor, at least his body felt like his own from then on, even if the doctors couldn’t understand it. But they didn’t need to. Lotor felt for Lambert, and for the other Witchers, who wouldn’t have had a caregiver like Dayak to step in and stand up for them.

“What is the purpose of performing this trial now, though?” he asked Lambert, as gently as he could. “If a Witcher is supposed to be a trained monster killer, I doubt that creature would be a good candidate.”

“Ha!” Lambert laughed. “No, we’re not making him a Witcher, but fuck if I know what we’re actually doing. Yennefer never tells us. Something to do with a curse, I think. She and Geralt think that creature might be their foster-daughter. Ciri. But cursed. I don’t know.”

“And they’d want to put her through that?” Lotor asked.

“Like I said, fuck if I know. Yen thinks it might break the curse or something. Again, all I know is I don’t wanna be anywhere near it.”

“I can’t blame you,” Lotor said. They sat in silence for a while, returning to the bread and cheese, and passing the second jug of Viziman Champion back and forth between them. It was pleasant. Lotor hadn’t shared a companionably silent meal with anyone without having to be on alert in a long time.

“So I asked you before,” Lambert said after a while. “Not Aen Sidhe, not Aen Elle. What are you?”

Lotor bristled at Lambert’s blunt phrasing of the question, even as he realized it wasn’t coming from a place of cruelty. Lambert wasn’t using it like the Galra did. In the mouth of a Galra, it was not a question at all, but a weapon that said  _ you’re different and you don’t belong. _

“My people are of two worlds,” he began. “My mother was Altean, but her people and her planet were destroyed long ago,” he said. He didn’t want to get into the colony and the heartbreak that had caused just yet. “My father’s people are the Galra, formerly from Daibazaal. The planet doesn’t exist anymore, but the people thrive as conquerors in other parts of the universe.”

Lambert whistled. “Whoa. That’s … something.”

Lotor nodded. It was.

“You have magic at all? Is that how you conquer a universe?” Lambert asked.

“That’s … a complicated question,” Lotor said. “The simple answer is … the Alteans had magic, or rather, some of us did. The Galra didn’t, but they compensated with advanced technology and war machinery. And they were the ones who wiped out the Alteans, entirely. Including my mother.” He supposed that was a good enough basic summary of the entire history of his peoples to get the point across for now.

“Fuck,” said Lambert.

“I was raised Galra, and ridiculed for my Altean characteristics - including any latent magical abilities I couldn’t outwardly hone,” he said. “Suffice it to say that I can understand what it’s like to be scorned by all around you for things beyond your choice or control.”

Lambert passed the bottle back to him for a final sip. “Sounds like you fit right in here, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If y'all are enjoying, please leave a comment or a kudo, they seriously make my whole day! I may not update exactly on time next weekend: my line of work gets EXTREMELY busy around Christmas so I may be a bit delayed, but never fear, the three of you are excited about this AU, I'm not abandoning it!!
> 
> Next time:  
> The Witchers, Yennefer, and Lotor go back up to the Bastion to examine the wreckage of Lotor's ship. Yen notices some *interesting* properties about the transreality comet material ... !!!


End file.
